


Of accidents and possibilities

by middlemarch



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Season 4 that never was, why does Ruth return to LA?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28289865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: These things happened every day. Today, it happened to Sam.
Relationships: Debbie Eagan & Ruth Wilder, Justine Biagi & Sam Sylvia, Sam Sylvia/Ruth Wilder
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Of accidents and possibilities

Ruth was grading Jennifer Webster’s essay on _Romeo and Juliet_ at the kitchen table, wishing the faux-Delft mug in front of her held whiskey instead of cold chamomile tea, when the phone rang; Jennifer had never had an original thought in her life, so Ruth had been glad of any interruption, even though her mother had been the one to pick up the phone.

“Wilder residence—oh, how nice to hear from you! Yes, just a moment, I’ll get her—”

Jennifer had been writing something about how Juliet should have checked her horoscope in the newspaper and Ruth thought her pen would literally run out of red ink if she actually marked up the paper the way it deserved, half-listening to her mother and praying she’d have to push the pages away, even if it was an invitation to go a Tupperware party at Missy Robertson’s and have it lorded over her that Missy had a husband and two supposedly adorable toddlers and Ruth was back in her childhood bedroom saving up for a studio apartment in Omaha and snow tires for her car.

“Ruth dear, it’s for you—” her mother said, unnecessarily, which was true of a good 50% of what her mother said but her father always shook his head at Ruth when she was on the verge of rolling her eyes.

“Hello, it’s Ruth.”

“Ruth, you need to come to LA right away,” Debbie said, without any preamble or acknowledgement that they hadn’t spoken in six weeks, since the eviscerating conversation at the airport, though Debbie had left two messages that Ruth had been lucky to erase from the answering machine before either of her parents could hear them and require some kind of explanation from her, the _young lady_ unspoken but heard by all of them, even though she turned twenty-nine this year.

“I would’ve called you back if I thought Eden was the right choice for me, Debbie,” she said. “It’s not what—”

“I’m not calling about Eden, even though I still don’t understand why you want to throw away the best opportunity you’ve ever had. Besides your shitty general impulse towards self-sabotage,” Debbie said. As arguments to take a job went, it was pretty weak, though Ruth would be lying if she hadn’t wondered about what it would be like to be taking a red pen to a script at Eden, maybe something with some Shakespearian themes worked in, subtly, so the audience responded to them without being fully aware—

“It’s Sam,” Debbie said.

“What? He’s working at Eden now? You’re the boss there, I don’t see what role I could possibly have—”

“He needs you. Justine, she was in a car accident. A bad one,” Debbie said, cutting her off.

“Oh my God, is she okay?”

“She’s alive,” Debbie said. “It’s bad though, she’s in the ICU, I don’t know a lot more than that.”

“Why would Sam want me there? The last time I spoke to him, it didn’t go well,” Ruth said. She’d replayed the scene in her mind a thousand times and she dreamed about it twice as many, but Sam’s expression when she pulled away was always the same, always so clearly hurt beneath the anger and whether she was daydreaming while her entire 7th period class failed to properly diagram a sentence or lying in her bed listening to her mother make frozen orange concentrate turn into something they called juice in the blender, she felt his hands gentle on her face, his arm going around her shoulders. “I don’t think he’d want to see me.”

“He doesn’t have anyone else, Ruth. You’re his friend, aren’t you?” Debbie asked.

“I guess. What about Cherry and Keith?” Ruth said. “He’s known them for a lot longer.”

“He needs someone he loves, someone who’s just there for him,” Debbie said. “He’s just barely keeping it together-- he hardly leaves the hospital even though Rosalie’s and her whole family are there too. He looks terrible, even for him.”

“Why are you the one calling?” Ruth asked. It was an effort to make herself sound normal or something like normal or something Debbie wouldn’t be compelled to call out as not-normal.

“Nobody else knows how you feel about him,” Debbie said. “Well, I think Rosalie does, she actually suggested I call you. She didn’t have your number though and frankly, she’s focusing on her kid, not the guy who knocked her up seventeen years ago.”

“Debbie, I can’t,” Ruth said. Hearing the words, knowing Debbie wouldn’t understand.

“I thought you said you loved him. Doesn’t that matter at all? Or did you just walk away from that too?” 

“I can’t afford it, I can’t ask my parents for the money, I just finally paid them back with what I had left from GLOW,” Ruth said. “I don’t get paid for two weeks.”

“Jesus, Ruth. All right, I’ll put your ticket on my credit card,” Debbie said. “You can pay me back later, the cost of a ticket from Omaha’s not going to make any difference to my bottom line. Can you get to the airport for the next flight out?”

Ruth shrugged. It seemed like Jennifer was getting an easy A. She’d be chaperoning Prom or picking up waitressing shifts at the chi-chi little French place on Harney to pay Debbie back or both, but there was no other argument to be made.

“Yes,” she said, already figuring out what she’d throw in a duffle bag, what story she’d have to come up with to keep the job her father had already called in favors to get for her. “And—thanks, Debbie. You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yeah, Ruth. I fucking know that,” Debbie said. “Terminal C. Justine’s at Cedars. Fly safe. I’ll talk to you when you get here.”

* * *

“If you can possibly get him to go home, do it,” the nurse, Terri according to her name-tag, said to Ruth approximately six seconds after Ruth had announced she was here to see Justine Biagi if that was okay, but really, to see Justine’s father Sam, the one with the aviators and the temper. Terri’s hazel eyes had widened and she’d nodded dramatically, in a way Ruth would have told her to tone down if she were trying out for any of the high school drama club productions, but she got it. Sam was…a lot at baseline and with Justine so badly hurt, he was bound to be difficult, even for an experienced ICU nurse. He would have prided himself on that, if he was even thinking that way.

“Is she going to be okay?” Ruth asked.

“I can’t say, but she’s got a lot going for her. The doctors will have a better idea in a few days, they might try to bring her out,” Terri said. She’d already explained that Justine was in a medically induced coma, which sounded worse than it was. It sounded pretty terrible to Ruth and Justine wasn’t her daughter. Sam could not have taken it well, when they’d told him, and Sam not taking something well was something, even for ICU nurses who must be used to dealing with people when their lives fell apart. “He’s in her room. He looks like hell, pardon my French, and he could use a home-cooked meal and a night in a real bed. Rosalie, that’s her mom, she’ll be here in about five minutes. Sam just sits in the waiting room while she’s here. For hours.”

“He might be a little surprised to see me. A little loud,” Ruth said. It only seemed fair to warn Terri, who only laughed.

“Yeah, that’s not a big deal. But unless you press the call button or Justine’s machines go off, none of us will come running if there’s some… noise,” Terri said, giving Ruth a look that took in her generally harried appearance, her ponytail askew from getting mashed by her seat in economy, the lip-gloss she’d tried to swipe on and the half-assed mascara. “I can keep your bag at the nurses’ station. You can pick it up when you’re on your way out. With Sam. Because I can’t stress that part enough. Take. Him. Home.”

“Got it,” Ruth said, following Terri’s gesture to Justine's room, a narrow space with lots of windows and just enough wall to qualify as a room. Sam was sitting in a chair beside her bed, looking exhausted even at a distance.

“Hi, Sam,” she said softly, from the threshold. He’d had his eyes closed behind his glasses and the light in the room picked out all the grey in his hair and mustache. She’d thought she might be waking him up but the look her gave her made it clear he hadn’t been sleeping.

“What the fuck, Ruth? What’re you doing here?” he said, his voice rough. Like he’d gone somewhere to scream. Or had kept himself from crying for too long. 

“Debbie called me,” she said. “She told me about Justine, Sam, I’m so sorry—”

“She’s not dead, for fuck’s sake,” Sam said.

“No, I know, I’m sorry,” Ruth said quickly. Justine was hooked up to a zillion wires and tubes, a pale blue blanket drawn up to her chest and Sam still managed to look closer to death. “I talked to the nurse, Terri, she said Justine’s holding her own. She didn’t sound like she was just saying it, either.”

“Terri,” he said. It was clear he was trying to remember who she was and failing at it. Ruth walked closer to him, the way you slowly approached a wounded animal who was very likely to snap at you, the kind of behavior Sheila would have approved of. Not that Ruth was really thinking of anyone but Sam right now, who looked drawn in a way she’d never seen before, not even after his worst bender. She was trying to decide whether to crouch down next to him or get another chair when he reached his hand out and pulled her close; the plastic arm of his chair was digging into her thigh but she barely noticed as Sam turned his face into the curve of her waist, his cheek pressed against her belly. She stroked her hand through his hair and felt him tighten his arm around her. She’d expected ranting, the full complement of obscenities at his disposal, the addition of some Italian curses, and at least one remark that she’d torture herself with later. He was silent, only the sound of the machines working and their breath filling the room.

“Sam, let me take you home,” she said, keeping her voice low, soothing. “Rosalie’s going to be here any minute. She’ll stay with Justine. You need a home-cooked meal and a night in your own bed.”

“You can cook?” he said, angling his head so he could look up at her. Not letting her go. Not arguing to stay in the ICU, in the plastic chair.

“Scrambled eggs, anyway,” she said. She touched his unshaven cheek very lightly, watched him close his eyes. She felt the words crowding her mouth _I love you I’m sorry I want you let me let me_ and swallowed them all down. 

“All right,” he muttered. “You gonna follow my car?

“I came straight from the airport,” she said. “I need a ride.”

“Okay,” he said, acquiescing so readily she decided to go for broke.

“I’m driving,” she said. She’d never seen anyone else behind the wheel of his Cadillac and suspected he wanted it to stay that way. He’d have to deal, just this once. “You get me onto the freeway, you can sleep on the way home.”

Terri nodded at Ruth as she handed over the duffle bag. Rosalie was already walking down the hall to Justine’s room, a huge handbag over her shoulder.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, Sam,” Terri said. “Drive safe now.”

* * *

“It’s not right,” Sam muttered, sitting at his yellow Formica kitchen table, and Ruth had a terrible sinking feeling, she’d done something wrong again, screwed this up like most everything else, and she tried to think of what she was supposed to say next, even though the honest truth was he was the one who’d left her on the street the last time they were together and she’d just flown five and half hours for him to curse at her and almost kick her out of the ICU and now she was making scrambled eggs with a dish towel tucked into the waistband of her jeans for an apron.

“Sam, I know—”

“It should be me in that bed, not her.” He was tracing some kind of pattern on the table-top, something to keep his hands busy. Not a cigarette though, which had surprised her. She’d tried to get him to take a hot shower while she cooked but he’d parked himself in the chair instead. She wasn’t sure who had stocked his fridge, but there’d been a dozen eggs and a half-gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, some freckled bananas hanging from one of those ceramic banana-gallows which she would have guessed he would never have bought for himself. 

“Sam, that’s not—”

“I had a fucking heart attack nine months ago and I walked out of the hospital the next day. I stopped using, I stopped drinking, mostly, and I started eating a goddamn shitty salad every day and I’m fine and she’s eighteen and didn’t use a turn signal and she’s in a fucking coma, Ruth,” he said, raising his voice as if she’d been arguing every point instead of listening to him in utter silence. Somehow, she kept moving the spatula in the pan of eggs so they wouldn’t burn. 

Heart. 

Attack. 

“You had a heart attack?”

“Yeah. The day Justine sold her screenplay,” he said.

“You didn’t tell me,” she said. “When it happened. Later. At the bar.”

“No, I didn’t. I told you other things,” he said. _You’re a nightmare come here love you didn’t get the part…_ He told her what he’d put up with when he drove away. God, she was tired of them hurting each other.

“Do you know why I’m here?” Ruth said, reminding herself as much as anyone. “I had to get a loan from Debbie to pay for the ticket and we haven’t spoken in over a month.”

“Fine. Why? Why’d you come?” he said.

“Because she said you needed me,” Ruth said. “She said you needed someone you loved. Someone who’d put you first.”

“You believed her?” Sam said.

“She was right. Wasn’t she?” Ruth said, her right hand still working through the eggs, almost entirely independent from the rest of her.

“Yeah. She was fucking right, Ruth,” Sam said. “You sure that’s you?”

The eggs were done because of course they were. She took a minute to scoop the majority onto his plate, leaving her enough to count as a meal, fished some cutlery out of a drawer and set the plates down; she’d waited tables enough to have a modicum of grace. 

“Yes. I am. Eat your supper before it gets cold,” she said. She rested her hand on his shoulder and felt how tense he was, how long it had been since anyone had touched him. “We’ll talk more when you’re finished.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” she offered, after he’d eaten his whole plate, two slices of buttered toast, an orange he’d peeled with an astonishing delicacy, and then kissed her with his citrus-scented hands cradling her face as if she were precious. Cherished. The look in his eyes when he drew back told her she was.

“Like hell you will,” he said quickly. Then he paused, rubbed his eyes underneath his glasses. “Sorry. I shouldn’t assume. You should sleep wherever you want. But you’re welcome, very welcome, in my bed.”

“The couch is a little lumpy,” she said. “Speaking from experience.”

“The mattress isn’t. And I don’t hog the covers. At least, that’s not a complaint I’ve gotten,” he said. His color was better since he’d eaten. Since he’d kissed her until she moaned thoughtlessly, desperately, into his mouth when he let his palm cup her breast. 

“I’ll let you know,” she said.

“Ruth, I don’t expect anything tonight,” he said. “Just sleep. That’s all. I don’t think, as much as I fucking want—I’m not up to much. Besides holding you.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “You need a good night’s sleep more than anything else.”

“Not more than anything,” he said. 

It was still dark but not technically night when he woke her at 5am with his mouth on her shoulder where her tee-shirt had slipped down, his hands stroking back the loose hair from her face, a muttered _this okay, mio cuore?_ before he went any further. To a place where there weren’t any words. Or none that Ruth needed other than his name.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Nabokov, Pale Fire.


End file.
